It’s like this when she takes her hand
to my scalp: eyes close as if tasting
a forkful of lemon cake. I’m the woman
who catches the Holy Ghost on Sunday,
but it’s Monday and the ushers
who catches the Holy Ghost on Sunday,
but it’s Monday and the ushers
have shut up their fans. She smoothes my edges
with her fingers before guiding the bristles
with her fingers before guiding the bristles
from root to end. She believes me
